


The Body Electric

by lamb_and_knife



Category: Hannibal Lecter (Hopkins Movies), Hannibal Lecter Series - All Media Types, Hannibal Lecter Tetralogy - Thomas Harris
Genre: F/M, Smut
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-29
Updated: 2020-01-05
Packaged: 2021-02-27 12:34:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 16,576
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22017205
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lamb_and_knife/pseuds/lamb_and_knife
Summary: At the end of Thomas Harris' novel Hannibal, we know our couple is living a life in Argentina filled with lavish nights at the opera, beautiful clothing, well-trained servants, dancing, foreign languages and copious amounts of sex — but how did they get to that point? What happened after the bloody dinner with Krendler?This work will contain explicit depictions of sex. Perspectives shift throughout the story; sometimes we are in Clarice's head, other times we are in Hannibal's.The title is inspired by both Walt Whitman's "I Sing the Body Electric" and Lana Del Rey's "Body Electric."
Relationships: Hannibal Lecter & Clarice Starling, Hannibal Lecter/Clarice Starling
Comments: 22
Kudos: 125





	1. Part One, The Art of Fucking: 1

**Author's Note:**

> Only the books will serve as canon inspiration for this Clannibal series. There will be explicit depictions of sex, though not in every chapter. Harris suggests that their lives are filled with eroticism, and I intend to explore, examine and imagine what the details of that would be.
> 
> Though this isn't my first time writing fanfiction, this *is* my first time contributing to the Hannibal Lecter fandom. I've read (and re-read) all of the books, seen the movies and watched the NBC show, though my preference is still overwhelmingly for the novels. I prefer writing in that universe.
> 
> I overuse quotes in my upfront material, and I do apologize for that.
> 
> Love,  
> Jackie // lamb-and-knife

**THE BODY ELECTRIC**  
A Fan Fiction

_Their relationship has a great deal to do with the penetration of Clarice Starling, which she avidly welcomes and encourages. It has much to do with the envelopment of Hannibal Lecter, far beyond the bounds of his experience. It is possible that Clarice Starling could frighten him. Sex is a splendid structure they add to every day._  
  
Chapter 103 of _Hannibal_ by Thomas Harris

* * *

_I sing the body electric,_   
_The armies of those I love engirth me and I engirth them,_   
_They will not let me off till I go with them, respond to them,_   
_And discorrupt them, and charge them full with the charge of the soul._

“I Sing the Body Electric” - Walt Whitman

_We get down every Friday night_   
_Dancin’ and grindin’ in the pale moonlight_   
_Grand Ole Opry, feelin’ all right_   
_Mary prays the rosary for my broken mind_

“Body Electric” - Lana Del Rey

* * *

**PART ONE: THE ART OF FUCKING**   
**Chapter 1**

Dr. Hannibal Lecter wouldn’t call it “love making.” Implying that such a hedonistic act was connected to the concept of love was an attempt to make deeper meaning where there was none. When he reflected on the matter, the most appropriate word that came to mind was “fucking.”

Fucking. A crass term, yes, but far more on the nose than “love making.” And, it was the phrase Clarice had chosen when inviting him into her for the first time.

Over the last few months, Lecter had learned how large his blind spot was into the nuanced personal pleasures of fucking. He had believed that his hobbies and other leisurely pursuits fully rounded out the faculties of emotion. His indulgences in art, food, wine, fashion, vehicles, taste-making and the occasional foray into murder had surely fully circled the drain of all pleasure principles. 

Sex was complicated in that it required a partner. Furthermore, the commonplace assumption that sex came prepackaged with feelings of love was another roadblock. Sex could threaten his ability to live the secluded, pleasure-filled life he wanted; killing everyone he slept with would have been impractical unless he envied moving frequently and covering tracks. 

Simply put, the art of fucking never appealed to Lecter.

When the doctor abducted Special Agent Clarice Starling and nursed her back to health half a year ago, his intentions were utterly asexual. As Clarice resisted his efforts to reverse entropy and bring forth Mischa, like Jesus beckoning to Lazarus inside his tomb, Lecter faced momentary indecision over his captive. He had put real consideration into eating Clarice; he dreamed of what an utterly visceral experience it would have been to feed Paul Krendler and Starling to one another, alive, in a delightfully bloody ménage à trois — complete, perhaps, with a Prosecco and orange sherbet for dessert.

He hadn’t indulged this vision, but it wasn’t because of love. Even seeing Clarice dressed in the bespoke cream Givenchy gown that night, which framed her breasts beautifully in the dining room’s candlelight, was only an experience akin to viewing the Venus de Milo come to life — it was striking to be in the presence of such breathtaking beauty, especially one crafted by his own hands, but it was not seen through the rose-colored glasses of love.

Clarice was the wind that arrives on the cusp of a thunderhead. She was unpredictable. She was insufferable. She was quick-witted. She talked back to him, often preferred a neat glass of whiskey over his Lillet with orange and smoked the rare cigarette when stressed; at his requests to put it out, she would either let out a drag of smoke in his face, or, once, she had burned the starched collar of his white button-up by dashing out the embers on his neck.

After that moment, he had walked inside to their kitchen, pulled out a teacup and dropped it to the floor. It shattered. The white shards remained on the floor until he swept them into the bin. Again, he had considered what a savory meal Starling’s sweetbreads could make. Again, he paused. It wasn’t love. It was, perhaps… respect.

Yes, they had been fucking at this point, but Hannibal the Cannibal had hardly been turned into an obedient church mouse due to it. Clarice knew this. She typically ignored any evidence of his darker passions; once, while stowing away that week’s fresh groceries from the local market, she had carried on a fluid conversation with him while stocking and rearranging the freezer — until she stopped to ask if he could possibly move the decapitated head inside the chest to the freezer in the garage instead to give them more space.

_The National Tattler,_ a sleazy American tabloid that lived up to its reputation, cashed in on the rumors circulating around Starling and Lecter’s disappearances; the paper hadn’t been so successful since their own Freddy Lounds, a reporter who tried to tango with the murderous Red Dragon for fame, had rolled up hot and crispy to the paper’s front doors. 

_**HANNIBAL THE CANNIBAL ABSCONDS WITH FBI’S DEATH ANGEL**_ — 

this was the headline hitting stands less than 24 hours after the events at Mason Verger’s estate began leaking into the public eye. The flames of a sexual conspiracy were fanned due to Starling’s close work with Lecter during her pursuit of Jame Gumb and the subsequent rumors that she assisted in the doctor’s prison break out of unrequited love for him. 

The editor-in-chief of the _Tattler_ believed the two had died during the Verger catastrophe, so he felt no fear pimping out the could-be couple for coverage during slow weeks — “Lecter and Ex-FBI Agent Starling Spotted on Lover’s Cruise!” “The Monster Takes a Mrs.: Dr. Lecter and Clarice Starling Secretly Wed in Vegas?!?” And, Lecter’s personal favorite of the bunch, “Love Bites: Hannibal the Cannibal Bemoans Lovers’ Quarrels in Untraceable Call to the _Tattler_!” 

Lecter and Starling were the new age’s sexy Bigfoot story, spattering the sidebars of every mainstream gossip paper in America and even a few international publications. When there’s no news, anything can be news — and nobody could prove it wrong. Ardelia Mapp, Clarice’s roommate and best friend from the academy, spent many sleepless weeks hunting down any traces of truth behind the headlines, only to come up with smoke. Mapp didn’t put much real stock in the stories, but she hoped that the fantasies were sprouted from a single seed of realism. 

Clarice sometimes wondered if the truth of the situation would hurt her more.


	2. Part One, The Art of Fucking: 2

_The saints can’t help me now, the ropes have been unbound_

“Howl” by Florence + The Machine

* * *

**PART ONE: THE ART OF FUCKING  
** **Chapter 2**

But we have, perhaps, digressed into one of Lecter’s mental interludes. On the subject of fucking, the doctor had found himself surprised — and, he might admit, a touch dismayed — at the carnal pleasures and sensibilities it aroused within him. 

After their red dinner with Krendler, Lecter found himself on bended knee before Starling, suckling the warm droplet of Lillet suspended from her peaky left nipple as she reposed on the couch in the firelight. Again, what he had felt then was not love; instead, it was the first fleeting touches of lust and sumptuous desire that came to him, borne from an undiscovered chamber in his memory palace. As he entered this new room, he found it lit with hundreds of tea candles, yet he could not see what artwork adorned its walls nor how small or large the space truly was.

He thought back to that moment…

* * *

A master of self control, Lecter enjoyed the throbbing sensations he began to feel in the crotch of his suit pants as he nursed at Clarice’s breast. He felt the tips of her fingers briefly graze the top of his dark, sleek head as her arm came to dangle off the side of the couch as she leaned backwards, high from the drugs he had given her an hour earlier and more than a little drunk from the wine and liquor.

Clarice moaned softly, and the doctor savored the thrum it sent through him; in his memory palace, he could now glimpse the edge of a large portrait with a gilded frame off to his left. A warm, inviting scent seemed to waft off of her, barraging his sensitive nose with pheromones of desire.

With no warning, he detached from her breast and stood, stroking down the front of his suit pants and smoothing the wrinkles in his jacket. Clarice, her head tipped back over the arm of the couch and her neck deliciously exposed, opened her eyes lazily in a mild daze and eyed him curiously.

“What’s wrong?” she asked, never one to mince words, no matter her mental state.

Though he felt himself going flaccid again at his command, the sight of her — sprawled languidly on the couch, her cream colored gown pushed up to her knees, lower legs exposed and her breasts rising more rapidly in the firelight during her breathy arousal — was still immensely satisfying. 

He had to clear his throat once before speaking.

“You are high, Clarice. And drunk, too. It would be best if you retired for the evening. I’ve some tidying to attend to prior to turning in. You should bathe and rest.”

If he hadn’t known of the drugs he’d injected into her, he would have assumed in that moment that she was sober — the flash fire suddenly alight in her eyes burned with intensity.

“I never figured you to be a tease, Dr. Lecter.” The fire in her eyes moved south, and a blush burned at her cheeks. Her left breast was still exposed in the firelight, and the wetness left by Hannibal’s mouth kept her nipple hardened in the cool air.

He stared down at her, the former heat in his trousers completely cooled to ash by then. 

“Clarice, do not be prideful or hurt. You are smarter than to take something like this personally. You are inebriated. It would be disrespectful to proceed further than we have already.”

She dropped her eyes slightly.

He knelt to adjust the strap of her dress back into place, but she stopped his hand. He respectfully took one step backwards with a tilt of his head.

Starling stood and smoothed her dress with hurried impatience. Her dark hair bunched up slightly in the back from how she had sprawled on the couch for him. Still, a tinge of pink burned at her cheeks.

“Well, it was a lovely dinner. Thank you,” she said curtly, not meeting his eyes as she reached back absentmindedly and gathered her hair into a short ponytail that she swept to the side of her neck where it immediately fell out and back to flat.

“I appreciate your compliment, Clarice. And you are quite lovely; I believe I made that known when we met earlier in this room for our apéritif. It is not a lack of desire that keeps me from you this evening. You are intoxicated. Maybe one of our future couplings will involve drugs to intensify the sensations, but I would not like it to be for the first time.”

Her tongue fumbled for an equally eloquent response — she was, when she thought of it, very tired indeed. And he was probably right, which he knew. But she would not give him the pleasure of her acknowledgement on the matter.

“I will see you in the morning.”

“I look forward to it.”


	3. Part One, The Art of Fucking: 3

_“Have you guessed the riddle yet?” the Hatter said, turning to Alice again._

_“No, I give it up,” Alice replied. “What’s the answer?”_

_“I haven’t the slightest idea,” said the Hatter._

From _Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland_ , by Lewis Carroll 

* * *

**PART ONE: THE ART OF FUCKING  
** **Chapter 3**

Breakfast was fresh-squeezed orange juice and Greek omelettes served with a side dish of caviar. From the corner of the dining room, a record player softly played a jazz selection from the vacant home owners' personal collection. It wasn’t terrible, but Lecter had made a mental note to browse for other options while next out shopping.

Our cannibal sat at the table in a plush navy blue robe tied loosely at the waist and a black-and-tan pair of sherpa slippers, also courtesy of the homeowner. He looked up as Clarice Starling entered the room, dressed in camel-colored cashmere and walking on bare feet that stuck lightly to the cold wooden floors. Her hair was unbrushed and the dull glaze that had hung in her eyes the evening before was gone, though she was still sleepy.

Lecter folded his white linen napkin in his lap.

“Good morning, Clarice. I’m glad you could join me.”

“Good morning, Doctor. It felt good to sleep in a bit.”

She took a seat on his right at the only other table setting laid out for breakfast; Krendler’s place opposite her from the evening before was vacant and immaculately cleaned. Her eyes paused on it a moment, but her recollection of the dinner itself was rather fuzzy.

“Might I interest you in an omelette?” Hannibal’s hand reached towards the cover of a silver warming dish.

“Oh yes, please.” 

She covered a small yawn before reaching to pour a glass of juice as her host served her. The momentary iciness from the evening before had melted away, though Clarice assumed it was only a matter of time before the subject worked its way back around.

They ate their breakfast and made small talk. Current living circumstances limited the number of comfortable subjects available at their disposal, so the doctor began pointing out various items on the table by their French names — _l’assiette, la fourchette, le couteau, les jus d’orange_. 

“French is designed to flow smoothly from your tongue,” he explained. “If you would ever have two vowels next to one another, such as ‘ _le omelette_ ,’ you will usually drop the first vowel and glide past it — _l’omelette_.”

“I remember that bit. I took some French in college. _L’omelette_.” Her Texas twang made it sound more like “lom let,” but Lecter smiled at her attempt.

“The basics will come back to you. Should you care to have something, you would say, ‘ _Je voudrais_ —,’” he made a motion with both hands to indicate something. “ _Je voudrais une omelette_ ,’ for example.”

“ _Je voudrais une omelette_ ,” she copied, trying to match the velvety lilt in his pronunciation. She liked the feeling of the words in her mouth, and it felt natural to her, though it had been years since her last French lesson.

“ _Très bien, mademoiselle. Vous-serez un excellent élève_.”

Clarice laughed. “ _Merci_. I remember that one. I’d really love to learn, if you’ll teach me.”

“It would be my pleasure, Clarice. The best way to learn a language is to live in it. Let us commit to enjoying our meals together in French. I will guide you, of course.”

She sipped from her glass.

“That sounds rather fun. Sure. Let’s give it a try.”

As their breakfast wrapped and their first French lesson came to a close, Clarice thought again of how uncomfortable she was with the idea of discussing the evening before. Looking back, sober, she felt foolish; it was unlike her to be flustered, and she wasn’t sure what to do with the realization that had been buzzing around in her skull since waking and seeing it wasn’t a dream — Hannibal Lecter had nursed at her breast. She had invited him to do so, and she had enjoyed it.

It had been a long time since she was with a man, she reasoned. In fact, she couldn’t remember the last time she’d had sex — was it before the academy? Before college? She typically found men to be tiresome or too like her father. Even her FBI colleague and one-time flame John Brigham had morphed into a father figure over the course of their casual dates, to the point where she found even the thought of kissing him to be repulsive. It had hurt John, which made Clarice feel a mixture of inadequacy and guilt.

She saw nothing of her father in Hannibal Lecter, she reasoned.

She supposed he was rather attractive, given his age. Time outside of prison had done his features well. She had been high and more than a bit drunk last night. They were alone. He had been nursing her back to health. He was all she had right now, unless she wanted to backtrack it to Washington with jack shit in one hand and a whole lot of nothing in the other for an excuse. 

It was understandable. Surely, it had to be understandable.

Her temples throbbed, and she pressed her fingertips against the hairline just over her right ear. Her body was still exhausted. How long had it been that she’d been there? Days? Weeks? She didn’t know.

Clarice stared out the window. The evergreens stood tall and foliaged as normal, but some of the smaller trees growing in their midst were barren. The ground itself looked slightly wet and cold in the morning sun.

 _Still winter, then,_ she thought.

“Is your head bothering you, Clarice?”

“Only a small headache. I’m fine.” 

“You are applying pressure with your hand. Do you frequently suffer from migraines?” Lecter reached out and took her head in both hands. She did not flinch. His touch was non-threatening but solid on her jawline. 

Starling humored his examination. _For a cannibal, he sure does enjoy playing the role of caregiver._

Hannibal released her head. “I will clear up. I’m sure you are itching for activity, Clarice, but I must ask you to continue to rest. Might I suggest the back veranda? It is cool outside, but not too cold. There are clean blankets folded in a crate by the settee.”

Relief jumped in her throat. Their awkward conversation was to be postponed, then. Plus, she wanted time with her thoughts. It felt as though she was discovering her mind for the first time in a long time.

“That sounds like a plan, doctor. The cold air should do my head some good.” 


	4. Part One, The Art of Fucking: 4

_Be not ashamed women, your privilege encloses the rest, and is the exit of the rest,_   
_You are the gates of the body, and you are the gates of the soul._

“I Sing the Body Electric” - Walt Whitman

* * *

**PART ONE: THE ART OF FUCKING**   
**Chapter 4**

Hannibal joined her on the flagstone veranda fifteen minutes later. He brought coffee and set it before her on a tray. There were two cups on saucers alongside individual bowls for sugar and cream. He filled a cup from a metal French press and offered it to her.

“ _Le café, le sucre et le crémier_ ,” he said, pointing to each one as he spoke. “All are rather close cognates. Caffeine should help alleviate your migraine. I can provide other painkillers if not, but I would prefer to limit your intake given your recent treatments.”

Clarice took the cup with a wry smile and responded half-seriously. “You mean your plan of keeping me stoned.”

She expected a bit of anger at her comment, but his face barely moved as he fixed his own cup of coffee.

“You would have either died or fled if I had not. And then you would have died with nowhere to go and enough tranquilizers in your system to bring down a man twice your size. I needed to ensure you were healthy and in good enough shape to reason.”

The ex-FBI agent sipped. It was slightly bitter, so she reached for the sugar spoon.

“You kidnapped me.” She had been cognizant for days, but it was only that morning that she felt she was truly coming around to her situation.

Lecter held her gaze steady with his typical intensity.

“You are free to leave, Clarice. You would have died at Mason Verger’s, and you were in no condition to return to Quantico upon regaining consciousness. Your keys, wallet and gun are still in the top drawer of your dresser, as I promised.”

Clarice chewed her bottom lip. “You took advantage of me. I don’t remember much, it’s all a blur but — I know we talked a lot. I remember the sting of needles. You took the opportunity to mess with my head, as you mess with everyone’s.”

Hannibal set his cup down, staring at it for a moment long, Starling thought. The maroon pinpoints of light in his eyes shone.

“You’ve never seen your true potential, Clarice. You limited yourself to the academy and to the likes of Jack Crawford or Paul Krendler. But who is _Clarice_? Do you even know?”

She shot him a look.

“Don’t bring Crawford into this.”

“You were his pawn.”

“He was — is — my mentor.”

“You were his replacement for Will Graham. He fought for you only when it was convenient. He marched you, an FBI gelding, in to talk with _me_ with the same self-serving conviction as God commanding Abraham to sacrifice his only son. Do not fool yourself, Clarice. You are smarter than that.”

Starling opened her mouth to speak, but she knew she was becoming too emotional to properly spar with the doctor. Her girlish defiances would only embolden his case.

“Your marionette’s strings have been cut, Clarice. As I said, you are welcome to leave at any time. I confess that I would prefer for you to stay.”

Down a sloping back lawn came the sound of waves rolling up on a small, rocky beach. The rhythmic wash echoed against the gray stones of the veranda.

Starling met his gaze. She didn’t feel angry, exactly, but the words needed to be said. Their tones were matter of fact. 

“You would follow me, as you’ve done in the past.”

“I would only take action should you bring the cavalry after me, Clarice. I still find the world more interesting with you in it.”

She drank more from her cup and felt a restless energy coursing through her. He had never lied to her. He sometimes played games, yes, but he had never lied to her.

“Come now, Clarice. Let us address the real issue. You do not want to leave my company, and that bothers you.”

She added another spoonful of sugar to her coffee and topped it off from the French press. Her head was feeling better now that the Italian roast was working within her.

“If I’m honest, Doctor, I don’t know what I want.”

The wind picked up, rustling the needles of the evergreen trees lining the forest’s edge ahead of them. Hannibal reached over to a small chest next to the outdoor settee and removed two blankets. Starling took one with a small nod.

They sat in silence for a few minutes.

Lecter looked at her, deeply, from the corner of his eyes. He remembered how pleasant it had been to hear her moan the evening before.

“As we are clearing the air of tense subjects, I have to ask about last night, Clarice.”

She pursed her lips and the tip of his tongue flit briefly between his lips to taste the air. She smelled lightly of almond soap, and his mind was momentarily transported to the handmade soaps shop in Italy, where he’d sent her a gift basket with the note about the gryphon. Clarice tucked her legs next to her on the cushion and wedged the blanket snug under her feet.

“I must apologize for my… indecency after dinner, Doctor. I — I’m not quite sure what possessed me to behave that way.”

Dinner — dinner — what was she forgetting about that dinner? She had been so focused on their encounter afterwards that her memories of the meal itself felt distant. She was at once within her mind and without it.

“Do not apologize, Clarice. You were unbridled, for possibly the first time in your life. I will savor that memory for the rest of my days.”

He had revisited it a number of times already, framing it prominently in one of his most intimate memory chambers. He had never been brought to his knees with such rapturous delight before. Lecter had been pondering what it signified for him, as well as for Starling.

“Allow me, if you will, to put a bit of pressure on the subject. Tell me — did you pleasure yourself before you slept? I could smell that you were quite aroused.”

Redness blossomed across her cheeks. Her coffee cup clattered against the saucer as she sat it down, biting her lip. She flashed her eyes to him for a half second before staring down at the stones, as if her neck was tied to an invisible anchor.

“You have _no_ right to ask me —“

“Ah, I see. I sometimes forget you were raised Lutheran. Your reaction, then, is to be expected. Masturbation is not something to be ashamed of, Clarice. It is not a rude subject.”

Stunned silence from Starling. The ocean waves continued to crash in the distance.

“The taboo of sex has you embarrassed in the morning light. Last night, you were as sensual and emboldened as Titian’s Venus. Those passions live within the shadowy corners of your mind that you have kept locked away for so long. I would very much like to explore them with you, Clarice.”

The frankness of his speech threw Clarice. She had grown up surrounded by people who spoke in lies and half-truths; Lecter’s sober method of discussing anything from the weather to murder was still unusual to her. It popped into her mind that she was half-hoping he would put his foot down and demand sex from her; then, at least, she might feel less shame for desiring his touch again. 

But if she was to make that choice, she’d have to make it herself.

“I don’t love you, Hannibal.”

The doctor nearly snorted.

“Love is inconsequential to sex. I am an epicurean of experience, Clarice. I believe we could explore a vast range of sensations and elations together that require the presence of a willing partner. Do not let yourself become entangled in the red herring of sex equalling love. That is how many justify their otherwise shameful desires. Shame, like pity, has no place here.”

She could feel a soft heat warming in between her legs as it had last night, and she hoped he had not picked up on it. 

“Then what do we call it?” she ventured.

Though her questions were a touch tiresome, Lecter showed the tips of his teeth in a smile at her innocence.

“It is _fucking_ , Clarice. Forget the outdated Protestant learnings of your youth. We would be partners only in the most utilitarian sense of the word. Please, do not project upon me the typical pageantry associated with monogamy.” 

Clarice momentarily wished that she were still drunk. Hearing his steely voice say the word “fucking” aloud and asking if she had masturbated had tickled a bit of eroticism within her. She chewed the inside of her cheek and cleared her throat. 

“You’ve always been a straight shooter with me. I appreciate that. To answer your earlier question —“ 

She paused, the words on the tip of her tongue, but some wall built brick-by-brick by her as a child was holding it back.

The pinpoints of light in Lecter’s eyes shone with interest. He tilted his head barely, only just barely, to the left as he listened, completely still as he had been during their interviews. He breathed in deeply through his nose, and he tasted the unfiltered overtones of sex hanging around the veranda like a cloud.

“I — I did. I touched myself, and I thought about — you.” Her shoulders released tension as she spit the words out, and her breath quickened. The small beach’s waves sounded louder in the following silence.

Lecter gave her another smile, a sight many would have shrunk from. His gaze steadily held her. In the glow of the morning light, wrapped in layers of soft cashmere that gently outlined her naked breasts, Starling was utterly toothsome. 

“And did you climax, Clarice?”

What relief she had felt from a few moments ago was snatched away, like a rug being yanked out from underneath her feet the moment she decided to start dancing. She bit her tongue, hard. The warmth in her underwear began to feel wet.

Lecter was enjoying her budding arousal, though he controlled his own. He wanted to experience her shameful euphoria in his blood and throughout the prickling of his skin first. Restriction was a powerful stimulant.

She did not answer.

“You must break through this self-imposed censure, Clarice. I have no judgement of you for it. If you are going to enjoy something, then _enjoy it_. Throw yourself into it. Let it course through you. Shame serves no one.”

The question of climax had put a rubber stopper in her throat. He could still smell a slight, now growing, sexuality radiating from her. His tongue tasted the air again. He felt a small throb slip through his defenses. She was slowly exposing herself to him — so different from their first few rounds of lingual boxing while he was imprisoned. He felt he had his thumb over her.

In the doctor’s memory palace, he saw more of the gilded painting from the evening before — it was of a Japanese art style, and Lecter identified the painting, with its nudity, sex and tentacles, as Katsushika Hokusai’s _The Dream of the Fisherman’s Wife_. It was a fantastically erotic vision.

“To show you that I mean what I say, I will share my own experience. I enjoyed a very warm shower last night, and I could not remove your countenance from behind my eyelids. I stroked myself while you were fixated in my mind.”

He paused. He had intended to complete his story but now wanted to hear her ask him. Her breathing was more controlled, and her redness had melted to an all-over warmth. She gripped the edge of her blanket.

As the silence grew, she realized he was waiting for her to speak. Starling swallowed the spit that was gathering in her tensed mouth.

“And did you…did you climax, Hannibal?” She knew she was right to assume it was what he wanted to hear.

Lecter felt another uncontrolled pulse in his penis, but he did not miss a beat.

“Yes. I imagined us on the couch. I was made to brace myself against the shower wall. As I said, it was not a lack of attraction that kept me from you last night, Clarice.”

The top of her pajamas rose with a large breath and slowly lowered as she let it out. She looked at him steadily. There was more silence.

Then…

“Would you like to fuck me now, Dr. Lecter?”

He stared deeply into her eyes. The maroon in his eyes glowed with a hellish desire. His nostrils flared.

“Yes. I would.” Desire dripped off of his words. “Perhaps this evening, after dinner. This settee is hardly comfortable enough. Woven polyester is rather coarse on the skin.”

Clarice almost laughed aloud at the statement. _Woven polyester is rather coarse on the skin._ Of all the things to say at that moment.

“After dinner, then,” she said, with a touch of a laugh. 

They finished their coffee and carried the pieces inside.


	5. Part One, The Art of Fucking: 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for the support so far + I hope you enjoy! This is a bit of a slow burn, as I try to keep my writing realistic (or at least I hope I do).

_In the land of gods and monsters_  
_I was an angel_  
_Living in the garden of evil_

“Gods & Monsters” - Lana Del Rey

* * *

**PART ONE: THE ART OF FUCKING**  
**Chapter 5**

With a promise to watch her physical limits, Clarice waved goodbye to Lecter and left to wander the private beachfront alone. The wind picked up once she was on the sand, and she dug balled fists into the pockets of her fleece jacket. For the first few minutes, she kept glancing over her shoulder to see if Hannibal would follow. He did not.

The beach was a small strip that ran the perimeter of a very wide inlet. Cold water lapped at the rocky stones running along the shoreline, and Clarice walked across their slick tops with her arms outstretched as if on a balancing beam. In the distance, she could see other large, modern-style vacation homes near the water’s edge. Boats and jet skis were pulled on shore and covered; Clarice guessed that they were likely alone living out here during this time of year.

There was a small dock near the end of their home’s stretch of beach. A modest wooden boat was pulled onto the sand and secured to a metal ring. Two kayaks were stored upside down closer inland. She was close to taking one out, but a strong breeze buffeted her.

“ _I’ll only get myself stranded out there_ ,” she thought, unsure of the currents.

Instead, she walked out onto the dock and laid down to gaze at the grey winter sky. The pleasant push and pull of waves on the shore lulled her. A trio of red-tailed hawks played out over the water by gliding on the winter winds. The warbling coo of mourning doves sounded regularly in the trees lining the bank. At every departure, their wings fluttered with a loud whistling sound.

Clarice closed her eyes to nap.

* * *

Lecter headed out of the house with a few shopping bags tucked under his arm. He considered peeking at the beach to check on Starling, but he was hesitant to risk her growing trust in him. 

His focus turned to the morning’s shopping list. The truck started on the first turn, but Hannibal wished he was backing Clarice’s Mustang out of the driveway instead. The truck was horribly practical. 

Hannibal felt comfortable going out. His home was on the outskirts of Chestertown, a historic port city nestled across the Chesapeake Bay, a safe 2 hours or so from Baltimore. His first stop took him into the heart of the small waterfront town to shop for goods at the Farmers’ and Artisans’ Market. He filled a bag with Bosc pears, garlic, carrots, yellow onions, plum tomatoes, celery, green lentils, shallots, white peppercorns and a Delicata squash. 

Next, he motored over to a local wine and cheese shop for a bottle of Gewürztraminer, a bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon, a handful of fresh cinnamon sticks and two bars of dark chocolate. In his good mood, he sprung for a charcuterie board with dry-cured duck saucisson to go. Finally, he purchased sugar, cream, milk, whipping cream and a bag of ice from a nearby supermarket. He filled a styrofoam cooler in the truck bed with the ice and any perishable foods, then began to leave town; he made one brief detour at a small bookshop to pick up a handful of French children’s books and beginner’s workbooks.

His last stops took another hour, as he headed south into Rock Hall for fresh oysters and stopped by a roadside stand selling handmade whipped soaps from goat’s milk, cocoa butter and sweet almond oil. He made a note of their raw honeycomb for sale before continuing on to a butcher’s shop.

He was almost home again when a compelling idea that would make the evening _perfect_ came to mind. Without hesitation, he pulled onto the grassy shoulder and turned the truck around.

Hannibal finally returned home a little before one o’clock, with a small package tucked out of sight in his jacket pocket. He found Clarice in the library flipping through the pages of an outdated copy of _Vogue_ that had been collecting dust on the coffee table. 

“Did you find what you need?” She set the magazine down, watching as he removed his overcoat in the hallway and hung it away in the coat closet.

“More than enough. We shall have quite a fine dinner this evening. If you’ll allow me ten minutes, I will have lunch ready.”

Clarice followed him into the kitchen to assist with the groceries, against his protests. 

“I can help, let me do that much. It’s a beautiful home, but I’m awfully bored.”

Lecter hunted for a moment then plucked a paper package out of the bags and handed it to Starling. 

“I feared you might grow restless. I thought you might find these help you pass the time. Please do not assume that I think you possess a child’s level of intellect; most of the learning material geared towards adults is regrettable.”

She pulled out two different workbooks with fill-in-the-blank exercises and basic French reading comprehension. She chuckled at a copy of _Le Petit Prince_. 

“Will you be reading me bedtime stories now, Dr. Lecter?”

He smiled as he produced a chilled bottle of Sauvignon Blanc from the wine fridge and set it next to the charcuterie board of sliced cheese, meats and fresh fruit. 

“Only if you allow me to stay in your company for that long this evening.”

He saw her blush out of the corner of his eyes as he uncorked the bottle in one smooth movement and poured two glasses of white wine. Hannibal offered her one.

“Dinner will be a three-course affair, so I recommend not overfilling yourself for lunch. There are cold cuts in the refrigerator and other foods in the pantry, should you find yourself still hungry.”

He began putting away that morning’s purchases. 

“No, this is great, thank you,” she said, taking a seat at the long breakfast bar across from Hannibal as he worked in the kitchen. She told him about the beach, the dock, the boat, the kayaks and even the cooing doves. He paid attention to every word she said, topping off their glasses as she continued. Their conversation was so smooth and convivial that she felt like she was back in her academy dorm talking to Ardelia again.

Clarice studied the chilled drops of perspiration dripping down the curved side of her wine glass.

“What day is it?”

Hannibal popped a red grape into his mouth and crushed the flesh against the roof of his mouth with his tongue. The juice was sweet, yet not overly ripe.

“January 4th.”

She nodded. 

“I’m not sure why I felt the need to know. It’s as if we’re living without time now. I don’t suppose I have anywhere I need to be.” Starling frowned and studied her glass again. “It’s incredible how fast everything can just…change, but the world keeps going. I spent all that time building a future at the FBI, but when shit hit the fan it just didn’t matter. All of those years — gone. I’d be lucky if they put up a missing poster for me, considering the terms I left on.”

Lecter reached out and laid his palm on her hand. She looked at their hands and then at him. He held her gaze and spoke.

“You have always been better than a job doing grunt work for the FBI, Clarice. They do not miss you for they do not understand the talent they had at their fingertips. Now, you are free to reinvent yourself.”

She rubbed her thumb on the top of his hand.

“Don’t take this the wrong way, Dr. Lecter, but I’m not sure what choices I made in life that lead me to having a cannibal become the most decent person I know.”

This time, it was his turn to laugh. It was an odd sound, as Clarice realized she hadn’t ever heard it before. His laughs had always been tinged with a steely sarcastic humor, but this one was… natural. Which was, for him, unnatural.

“Good and evil is never black and white, Clarice,” he said, biting into an apple slice. “I have always approached justice with a very… libertarian point of view. In the eyes of the law, that is a problem.”

She shrugged her shoulders a touch, still rubbing his hand.

“And you ate people.”

“That too. But it was never the innocent.” He paused a beat and sipped his wine. “Well, it was _rarely_ the innocent.”

He brought her hand up to his lips and let it hover there under his nose. The scent of her skin mingling with the stone fruit aromas left on his tongue from the wine were quite a pairing. She did not flinch, nor did she break her gaze. 

“Are you afraid I’ll eat you, Clarice?”

She sipped her wine while intentionally making eye contact with him. 

“Only in the ways I ask for it.”

Hannibal kissed her hand with great satisfaction at her coy wordplay — my, a week with him had truly begun breaking down her inhibitions. She intimidated him a little now, and he was all the more attracted to her for it. He tasted her skin slightly with a flit of his tongue. Still, she did not move.

He released her hand and she used it to flip open one of the French workbooks on the counter. He saw the moist dab he had left glisten once in the afternoon light as her fingers sifted through the pages.

“Have you seen any pencils around here?”

“In the study, but you’d be more comfortable in the lounge.” He motioned towards a room just off of the main foyer.

She picked up the workbook and her wine while sliding off the tall chair.

“I’ll be in there, then. Don’t be a stranger. I’d love to hear you play more.”

“It would be my honor.”


	6. Part One, The Art of Fucking: 6

**PART ONE: THE ART OF FUCKING**  
**Chapter 6**

Hannibal joined Clarice in the lounge after prepping that evening’s marinade and mignonette sauce. She was laying on her belly, stretched out on the rug with a workbook open in front of her and a pencil tapping against the side of her dark head. The wine glass was empty and moved out of reach. She rolled over onto her side and looked at him as he pulled out the piano bench.

“ _Je m’apelle Clarice Starling_ ,” she said, reading from her fill-in-the-blanks. “ _J’ai… trente-trois ans, et mon anniversaire est le 23 décembre_.”

There was a bit of choppiness over “ _trente-trois ans_ ,” but Lecter applauded her efforts nonetheless.

“ _Bravo, mon cheri. Vous apprenez vite_.”

She tilted her head.

“ _Vous apprenez vite._ You are a fast learner,” he translated, thumbing through the sheet music on the piano lyre for inspiration. A book of Clara Schumann’s piano concertos was at the back. He thought for a few moments to find the music room in his memory palace, then began to play opus twenty-two from her collection _Three Romances_. He heard the violin’s soaring melody in his head as his fingers moved across the keys.

Clarice stilled her pencil and watched while he played. Growing up, she occasionally heard a man play banjo out on his front porch. Besides that, her experience with live music was limited to bad karaoke and the occasional local rock band at a bar on a Friday night. Brigham had always loved live music nights for their occasional dates, but Starling often found it far too difficult to talk over the noise of an amplifier pumping out a bad cover of Lynyrd Skynyrd or Jimi Hendrix.

She studied the doctor’s hands. They moved deftly, with barely a stumble. His eyes were closed. 

He sat like that for a few moments after he finished the piece, with eyes closed and fingertips resting on the ivory. She waited until he glanced at her to clap, not wanting to disturb him in the afterglow.

“That’s quite a talent you’ve got, Doctor. Are you trained? Did you study more than just medicine in school?”

“Lessons here and there during childhood. I was quite close to the Baltimore conservatory for a number of years. During my incarceration, I would sometimes string pieces of paper together at my desk and draw out all eighty-eight keys. With enough muscle memory, it is possible to know where your hands are, even on paper. I could hear the music in my head. It kept me from losing my touch.” He pushed the stool back and rested his elbows on his knees to look down at her on the floor. 

He reminisced. “I once ate a pianist. He was disappointing.”

“As a pianist?”

“No, in taste. Bad liver. He was a fine player, he just never cared to show up sober for performances. Sadly, I don’t think his consumption added much to my personal talent.”

Clarice chuckled. In any other timeline of possibilities in her life, she wouldn’t have chuckled at something so grotesque. But in this timeline, on January 4th, in the lounge and seated on the floor by Dr. Hannibal Lecter, she laughed at the absurdity of her reality.

He took off his shoes and joined her on the floor, picking up her workbook. She leaned towards him.

“I’m re-learning numbers, colors and how to tell time,” she explained, motioning with the pencil’s balding eraser.

“ _Quelle est la date et l’heure d’aujourd’hui?_ What is today’s date and time?” he asked her slowly, motioning to the icons of a calendar and then a clock in the workbook to assist with the translation. He leaned the book closed over his thumb.

Clarice pursed her lips and stared at the ceiling for a moment as she thought. 

“ _Le date d’aujourd’hui est la_ —,“ she whispered “ _Un, deux, trois, quatre_ ” while counting on her fingers, “ — _la quatre janvier. Les temps est… trois heures_.”

“ _Très proche_. Very close.”

They discussed for a while the difference between masculine and feminine conjugations in French and how common phrases in English are often much more concise when translated to French. Lecter quizzed her over the days of the week, the months of the year and the colors of the rainbow. It was a quarter after four when he brought their lesson to a close and handed the workbook back to her. She really was proving to be a fast learner.

He picked himself up from the floor and carried his shoes into the hallway. He appeared again in the door of the lounge to say, “I have a bit more preparation to do for dinner this evening, if you’ll excuse me.”

“Can I help?”

“I would rather keep it a surprise for you, Clarice.”

She stretched her arms and put the workbook on the coffee table. “If you say so. I think I’ll explore this house a bit more and see what I can find.”

“I look forward to discussing what you uncover.”

They smiled at each other, and Hannibal excused himself to the dining room.

* * *

During her explorations, Clarice found a small sunroom with an easel and a few art supplies bundled up in a corner. She also found a reading nook with various literary classics — _The Great Gatsby, Anna Karenina, Romeo and Juliet_ , and _War & Peace_, to name a few — that appeared to have never been opened. 

She found Hannibal’s room just around the corner, in the master suite. There was a large window overlooking a gap in the trees that provided a view of the channel’s blue expanse stretching to the horizon. The bed was made, but a couple of items on the nightstand suggested he slept on the right side, closest to the window. The bathroom was immaculately clean and stocked with a few essentials. A Gillette razor rested by the sink. There were a few water droplets on it.

Besides these rooms, there was a home office with a computer and a dusty treadmill, a pair of kid’s rooms with bunk beds, and an attic that was packed with clear Rubbermaid tubs stuffed with winter coats piled alongside pool noodles and floats.

No family photos were to be found, and Clarice wasn’t sure if Hannibal had hid them or if the pictures didn’t exist at all. It was hard to get a feeling for the family that normally visited this home. Judging by some of the books stacked in the office, she guessed that either mom or dad was a lawyer. 

Most of the artwork in the home was covered by large sheets. Peeking under a couple of them, Clarice quickly picked up on a theme — swans and naked women. There were a number of hunting trophies, too, mostly of elk. Everything else was modern and new, with a fine layer of dust since the family’s last visit.

Clarice curled up in the reading nook for a while and plucked a title off of the shelf — _Great Expectations_ by Charles Dickens. Her progress was laborious. One chapter and one sluggish hour later, Starling gave it up. She glanced at a small clock on the bookshelf; it was close to half past five.

There was a small package wrapped in butcher’s paper and a note waiting on the bed when she returned to her room. Starling checked the note first and saw Lecter’s copperplate. _A possibility, not a requirement. Enjoy_.

The gift was a jar labeled “Whipped Body Butter.” At first glance, Clarice thought it _was_ butter. She brought it close to her nose and picked up a subtle nutty scent of almonds that was levied with honey. She massaged a small dab into her hand and it melted into the skin.

After her bath, Starling found another copperplate note; this time, it had been slipped under her bedroom door.

_Drinks will be served at half past seven in the sitting room. I look forward to your company._

_PS - I also find Dickens to be insufferable._

She set the note on her dresser and began thumbing through the armoire for something to wear.

* * *

Hannibal was standing before a window overlooking the backyard in the sitting room as he sipped a drink. When he turned around at the sound of Clarice’s footsteps, she was relieved to see that the doctor was, like her, dressed more casually than the previous evening. His unbuttoned black suit jacket and charcoal button up complemented the black sheath dress she’d found tucked in the back of the armoire. Her neck and arms were rather bare, but the firelight did not play as deeply on her chest this evening.

Lecter walked across to a silver tray and began fixing her a drink. “A wonderfully understated choice, Clarice. Might I persuade you to enjoy my version of a Moscow Mule?”

She nodded, watching as he mixed together vodka, pomegranate juice, lime juice and a little honey over ice. He added a splash of ginger beer, then garnished the drink with fresh pomegranate seeds and a sprig of rosemary.

“How do you say Moscow Mule in French?” she asked, taking a sip. The flavor was a delicious balance of sweet and tart. 

“It is a cognate, as is vodka. Pomegranate is close — _la grenade_ ,” he explained, drawing closer. She saw his nostrils flare as he deeply breathed. “I am happy you chose to enjoy the gift I left for you.”

“Thanks.” It was the same uncouth answer from the night before, which had caused issue.

She raised an eyebrow at him as she took another sip of her drink. His mouth twitched. Instead, he set down his drink and retrieved a small pouch from inside his suit jacket.

“I was never able to give you a birthday present, Clarice.” He pulled a delicate silver chain from the crushed blue velvet bag. At the end of the silver was a freshwater pearl topped with a single diamond. Starling’s breath caught a little in her throat.

“Doctor, I - I can’t accept that.”

Lecter stepped behind her, draping it around her neck. He fastened it, turning her by the shoulders so that she could see her reflection in a small mirror on the wall. The diamond glinted in the firelight, and her plain black dress didn’t look so simple anymore.

“Look at how well it fits you, Clarice. I couldn’t take it back now, even if I wanted to.”

Hannibal fastened the hook at the nape of her neck. The tip of his nose grazed her skin as he drank in the almond scent of the body cream. He left an almost imperceptible kiss over the clasp; Clarice felt goosebumps scuttle down her shoulders, and she found the sensation to be pleasant.

“Thank you,” she said, slightly breathless. “This is one of the nicest gifts anyone has ever given me. I mean it.” Her fingers touched the pearl. She knew better than to ask if it was real; of course it was.

Lecter moved back to her side. “I am fortunate that you have been so misused in life, Clarice. It makes delighting you rather simple.” He enjoyed watching her look at herself in the mirror, admiring the gift he had given. “The idea of ‘sterling for Starling’ possessed me, and I had no choice but to fulfill it.”

Clarice turned from the looking glass and sipped more of her cocktail. 

“It was still unnecessary of you to buy me something so nice. And I haven’t been misused, doctor — your way of handling people is just so…unusual.”

“It is a difference of perspective, then, Clarice.”

Hannibal finished his cocktail and set it on the serving tray. He checked the grandfather clock standing in the corner. He offered an arm to her and she looped her forearm through.

“To dinner, then?”

As he had done the evening before, Lecter paused before the dining room doors.

“We are unaccompanied this evening. The courses I have planned are intended to take us on a journey through the senses; _un tour de gastronomique_. Though it will be difficult, I encourage you to practice your French whenever possible. And should you feel compelled to _do_ something — to laugh, to dance, to moan, to _feel_ — I compel you to indulge yourself in it, Clarice. You will do well to remember shame has no place at my table.”

She breathed in and out once.

“I will do my best.”

“That is all I may ask.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Update* I changed her age after spending a while making a timeline from the novels.
> 
> I also am not a fluent French speaker, though I did take four years of it in college and two in high school. If I butchered it or it isn't quite right, please let me know so I can edit!


	7. Part One, The Art of Fucking: 7

_This is a gift, it comes with a price_   
_Who is the lamb and who is the knife?_   
_Midas is king and he holds me so tight_   
_And turns me to gold in the sunlight_

“Rabbit Heart (Raise It Up)” - Florence + the Machine

* * *

**PART ONE: THE ART OF FUCKING**   
**Chapter 7**

The evening before, the dining room had been adorned with an overflowing arrangement of white flowers. For tonight, Hannibal had opted for darker tones. Cascading falls of richly green leaves and vines hung from the side table drawers, and a length of ebony crushed velvet split the mahogany table. Tapered black candles in brassy holders ringed by greenery brought warm light to the room, and gold chargers made their place settings stand out against the backdrop. Maroon-colored grapes still on the vine, succulent blackberries, halved gala apples, and pieces of pomegranate were generously heaped along the table runner, broken up every few feet by abundant floral arrangements of different jewel-toned flora. Subdued piano music drifted from the record player in the corner.

The cannibal paused to measure her reaction.

“You continue to impress me, Dr. Lecter.”

“I take pleasure quite seriously, Clarice. A sin should never be wasted.”

He bowed low in the candlelight to kiss her hand.

“When it pleases you to do so, I insist — call me Hannibal.”

He pulled her chair out and uncorked a chilled bottle of Sauvignon Blanc, pouring her a glass. She took her seat as he worked next to her shoulder.

“Un verre de vin blanc, mademoiselle.” He poured himself one as well and uncovered a silver dish. It was laden with crushed ice and six oysters on the half-shell. Two wedges of lemon and a crystal dish of a pale pink sauce completed the appetizer. “Pour notre apéritif, un plateau d’huîtres à la sauce mignonette.”

Hannibal motioned to each element as he spoke. Clarice nodded, silently mouthing and tasting the words on her lips.

He talked to her in slow French, pointing as he did so. _Salée_ to describe the salty oysters. _Acidulée_ for the vinegar-heavy mignonette sauce. Though she listened, Clarice was reminded of an oyster roast she had once enjoyed while visiting a college friend in South Carolina, and she paused to pop a red grape in her mouth to flush her palate with a break of sweetness. She plucked a second one from a bunch hanging on a severed vine before her and looked at Lecter.

“ _And should you feel compelled to_ do _something_ — _to laugh, to dance, to moan, to_ feel — _I compel you to indulge yourself in it, Clarice_.” His words rang in her ears.

Without hesitation, she reached across to Lecter’s seat at the head of the table and proffered its red flesh at his lips. His mouth parted slightly, and she gently tipped it in with a long index finger. His teeth and tongue grazed the end of her finger as she slipped it out of his mouth, and Clarice experienced another wave of goosebumps. He crushed it against the roof of his mouth and swallowed. Then, he picked up a blackberry.

“Une mûre,” he said, doing to her as she had done to him. His finger lingered a second longer just past her lips before retreating, and instead of wiping it upon his napkin, as Clarice had done, he tasted the small wet spot to his tongue.

“Le goût,” he said, motioning to his tongue. “L’ouïe.” He pointed to his ear. “L’odorat.” A gentle tap on his nose. “La vue.” Pointing just below his eye. “Le toucher.” Hannibal slowly stroked from the top of her left hand resting on the table up to her bicep. “Les cinq sens.”

Clarice drank deeply from her wine glass. Then she mirrored his movements.

“Le goût.” A point to her tongue. “L’ouïe.” Then the ear. “L’odorat.” The side of her sleek nose. “La vue.” By the corner of her eye. “Le toucher.” She was aware of her heart beating in her throat. Starling touched his hand, then his wrist, where she could feel his very slow and steady pulse — and went no further. 

She rubbed her thumb over his fist as it rested on the table. “Les cinq sens.” Clarice hated how her voice sounded weak now.

Hannibal gripped her fingers just enough to stay them. He looked deeply into her eyes. She could have been sitting across from him in the mental institution again. “Do not be scared, Clarice. If you experience fear, _let it thrill you_.”

He let her hand go as quickly as he had taken it.

“On to our next course.”

* * *

Savory aromas wafted in from the kitchen as Lecter came in through the servant’s door. Clarice felt as if she was in another world entirely. The vodka and wine beat a soothing thrum in her veins. She drank more and enjoyed herself.

Hannibal placed a covered dish on the table and flourished a clean cloth napkin from underneath the plate as he did so. He walked behind her chair and placed his hands on her shoulders. Clarice froze; not with fear, but with anticipation. 

“Do you trust me, Clarice?”

His voice was steely, but not sadistic. Her heart leapt back into her throat.

“Yes.”

With one flick of his wrist, Lecter made a long strap with the napkin and placed it over her eyes. It was still warm from the tray. He twisted a small knot at the back of her head to hold it in place. His breath was hot on her left ear.

“Can you see anything, Clarice?”

“No.”

“Good. We will use English here, and I will not hurt you. As I mentioned earlier, this is an evening for the senses, Clarice. Restricting one sense heightens the others by allowing you to focus. Let us use this to our advantage.”

His lips brushed her left earlobe with every word.

“Ok.”

She hoped she sounded resolute. Her heart was still pounding, but she didn’t want any of it to stop. It was the most alive she had felt in years.

Clarice heard his footsteps travel to the sideboard and the wet rustling of ice before the subtle pop of a cork. His steps returned, and she heard a small clink as a glass was set before her. Then, the silky pouring sound of what Clarice correctly guessed was more wine.

"A nice Chianti for our next course, medium-bodied," said Hannibal, and she felt the rim of the glass brush her as he cupped her nostrils with it. "Breathe deeply and seek out the aromas of cherry, strawberry, dried herbs, balsamic vinegar and smoke. It's served in a slightly more elongated glass with a wider bowl to help our noses savor this rich profile." 

She nodded, pretending to understand the importance; mostly, it just smelled like red wine. The fingers of his left hand stroked along her jaw as he brought the lip of the glass to her mouth, which parted without prompting. He tipped in a sip of the wine, then she felt his breath on her left ear.

"Swirl it, taste it and then drink it. As you mentioned to me earlier, we are living without time now. Savor it." She thought, maybe, that his tongue had flitted against the top of her ear, but it might have only been the shivers that were zipping from her lobe to her neck, where the sensations pooled and shimmered in her chest.

Starling swallowed the wine, hearing him pour his own glass and drink from it behind her.

"Now, time to eat."

There came the ringing sound of metal scraping metal as Lecter uncovered a dish on the table. A wall of scent washed over her. 

“What do you smell, Clarice?”

“It smells awfully good.”

“No. Do not simply say it is ‘good.’” His retort was sharp by her ear. “ _What_ exactly do you smell? What scents?”

She breathed, deeply. 

“A rather gamey meat…garlic…some type of sweet spice is tickling my nose, maybe…nutmeg? And bacon, there’s definitely bacon somewhere.”

A knife scraped against her plate. Then, she felt her fork hovering below her nose.

“That is better, Clarice. Breathe again, more deeply — no, do not speak this time.”

Scents mingled before her nose. Was it deer? Veal? There was the light, earthy aroma of roses and the punchy staccato of peppercorn. Browned butter and garlic most readily danced with her inhalations, and she again noticed something sweet in the mix — possibly cinnamon instead of nutmeg.

The succulent, springy feeling of game touched her lips, and she took it from the fork. The sharp prongs lingered against her lips, indenting the flesh. Lecter was back at her ear.

“Chew slowly, Clarice, with… curiosity.”

It melted on her tongue as she savored it. Pockets of garlic, butter, pepper, wine and — _yes, definitely cinnamon_ — left her hungry for another bite.

Starling again felt the edge of her wine glass at her lips, and she drank. Lecter’s mouth was at her ear again.

“Thank you for trusting me.” The statement landed with no expectation for a response. “My dear Clarice — may I kiss you?” 

Her blindfolded head turned slightly towards him, though he did not move. Her forehead touched his nose, and he breathed in the scent of her shampoo as it mixed with her skin’s almond lotion. She felt his eyes close as his lashes brushed against her temple.

“I think I would like that very much, Hannibal.”

He moved, quickly. The monster’s kiss was not at her lips but deep on her neck, near her collarbone. Clarice felt him sucking at her skin as he did so, and she lolled her head back over the top of the dining chair. Her moan was soft but very loud in her ears under the blindfold’s influence.

Lecter drug his mouth up her neck and nibbled at her earlobe. His teeth felt small and sharp. Starling could hear how loud her breathing was and she didn’t care. Her hands were up, reaching, looking for him. His own arms came down over hers and brought them back to her lap. Hannibal leaned against the chair back and sucked again at her lobe while holding her still. His exhalations felt hot inside her ear.

“Patience, Clarice.”

Starling reached up and yanked off the blindfold, expecting the room to be brighter than it was; she had already forgotten the dimness of the candlelight. He was no longer over her shoulder. Instead, he was seated again at the head of the table, legs crossed — he sipped his wine as if nothing had happened.

“ _Shame has no place at my table_.” The echo again in her head. This time, she did not blush. Her quick breathing brought attention to her breasts and the glint of the diamond and pearl, and Clarice did nothing to hide it. She met his gaze and drank, too.

Tonight, she would enjoy herself.

* * *

Lecter served her a full plate now. Clarice smiled.

“Lamb. I should have guessed.”

He smirked, taking a piece for himself and serving them each a spoonful of lentils. 

“It felt appropriate for this gathering.”

Starling cut into her lamb. “Do you always experience your senses so…strongly? As I just did?”

“Yes.”

She ate a piece. “Then I can understand why prison was so terrible to you.”

Lecter’s voice was sharp again. “You will never understand that.”

She shrugged, intentionally nonchalant while she chewed. “Maybe not. But if I felt things with such heat all the time, I wouldn’t want to go without it.”

Hannibal’s eyes looked irritated, but not dangerous.

Clarice felt a bit drunk again. She hoped she didn’t look it. The blindfold had fallen on the table next to her, slightly unraveled. She examined the cloth in the light.

“I liked this.” She threw the cloth at him.

The doctor set down his cutlery before unraveling the blindfold and using it to wipe a drop of butter from the corner of his mouth. 

“You continue to delight me, Clarice.” The iciness from only a moment ago was gone, completely forgotten. He motioned towards his lamb shank, the bone protruding sharply upwards on his plate. “L’agneau.” 

“L’agneau.”

“Bien, mademoiselle. Vous améliorez.”

“Améliorez?” she repeated with an implied question.

“You are improving.” 

* * *

Clarice knew there was to be a final course; he had mentioned it to her earlier. The lamb and lentils cleared away, she waited for whatever awaited her next.

Dessert turned out to be poached pears, dark chocolate, vanilla ice cream and whipped cream — Poires Belle-Hélène, according to her host.

“It should be my turn to feed you,” said Clarice as Hannibal cut away a piece of pear and chocolate. She rose from her chair, a might unsteady but she regained it quickly. He set his spoon down, the pear slipping off of the curved metal and into a pool of melting cream.

“Would you mind?” She motioned to sit in his lap. He uncrossed his legs to make room, like a spider might climb sideways to allow a fly to land in its web.

He could smell the abundance of red wine on her breath. “You are drunk, Clarice.”

Starling turned from her seat in his lap and took his wine glass. She drank. He reached a hand up and stroked his thumb over the dark spot on her cheek in the place the French call _couragé_. 

When she had finished drinking, she brought the edge of the cup to his lips. His dark head bent, sniffed deeply and she tilted it forward for him.

As she reached back to replace the wine glass and retrieve his dessert plate, Lecter momentarily glimpsed deep into the neckline of her dress; her nipples were as peaked as they had been the previous evening. His palms stroked the sides of her ribcage.

Clarice brought the cold spoon to his lips, and he ate. The ripe pear, sugary glaze and dark chocolate paired as well as he had intended. She took a bite next, losing a vanilla drop on her collarbone; whether it was by accident or not, Hannibal didn’t care — he met it with his tongue on her skin again. 

Through some unforeseen personal grace, she managed to keep the plate from spilling forth. It mattered little, though, because Lecter suddenly stood, shoving her back on the table as her black dress rode up from how her thighs straddled him. His dessert plate toppled to the floor and Starling’s head spilled both of their wine glasses as she was thrust on the tableau.

There was intense hunger in Hannibal’s eyes. Fear and desire tumbled in the pit of Starling’s belly. “ _Do not be scared, Clarice. If you experience fear, let it thrill you_.”

Clarice ran her fingertips down his shirt, stopping just above his stomach. It flashed through her mind that he could kill her right now if he wanted to, easily. She saw a knife protruding from the leftover lamb shanks in her peripheral vision. She could kill him, too, then.

Yet, her own mortality felt like a non-issue. She was a voyeur within her own body, somehow standing apart from herself as a new Clarice, someone either awakened or created — she didn’t know which — invited Hannibal to her.

He studied her on the table. There were small spatters of crushed blackberry juice mixing with spilled red wine from where she had landed, and her brunette hair was tangled in the greenery and flowers. Lecter committed the image to his memory palace, feeling as if he had stepped inside John Everett Millais’ portrait of Ophelia and was peering down at the woman in her watery grave. 

“In case you were confused,” Clarice said, toying with a button on his shirt as her chest rose up and down with every breath. “This is your invitation to fuck me, Dr. Lecter.”


	8. Part One, The Art of Fucking: 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh look, it's what you probably came here for. Let's get to it, shall we?
> 
> Note: They're both intoxicated during this encounter, particularly Clarice, which I know can be triggering. There's also consensual impact play, a knife and more than a little teasing.

_In the land of gods and monsters_   
_I was an angel_   
_Looking to get fucked hard_

“Gods & Monsters” - Lana Del Rey

* * *

**PART ONE: THE ART OF FUCKING**   
**Chapter 8**

Hannibal wanted to fuck Clarice Starling.

He had felt such desire only a handful of times during his life, and none of it was ever so sexual. He prided himself on his self control, but there was something…insidiously infatuating about Clarice. Her scent, the taste of her collarbone, her unrelenting wit and temper. Part of him wanted to take his steak knife and tear out her heart so she could watch him eat it whole before the light faded from her eyes.

No. No, it would be a waste to do something as instantly gratuitous as that with someone as…intoxicating as Clarice. Yes, that was it — she was intoxicating. If he consumed her now, he’d never again get to experience the thrills she brought to his flesh. Maybe later. But not tonight. 

Lecter found his voice again. So many thoughts had been streaking through his mind that he failed to notice their extended silence. Looking down at Clarice, her breasts bunched up in her dress, her knees resting under his armpits and the silver chain and pearl pooled in the cup of her collarbone — it was a sight he tucked away with pleasure into his memory.

“I understand that, Clarice. I was only trying to decide something in my head — should I fuck you first with restraints, or without?”

She reached a drunken hand towards his erection and stroked the taunt fabric once before he shifted away.

“With.”

“As you wish.”

The doctor carried her in his arms, as he had carried her just two weeks earlier from Mason Verger’s stables during their rescue missions. She continued to work at his shirt buttons, her fingertips fumbling over the small circles.

“I can walk there myself, you know.”

“Would you like to?”

A pause.

“No.”

* * *

It was perhaps thirty seconds until they were in Lecter’s rented accommodations, and Starling had successfully undone two buttons. He laid her at the foot of the bed and she stretched herself out, laughing as the straps of her dress fell to the sides of her upper arms. She was deliciously, almost deliriously, drunk, and she felt finally, blessedly, at ease enough to let herself enjoy the pleasures that were about to befall her.

Clarice slipped off the sheath dress and tossed it from the side of the bed. Her nipples were hard and exposed in the dark, and a dark spot on her panties bore witness to her desire. The pearl hung a few inches above her naked tits. He thought her sienna areolas were exceptionally tempting in the moonlight.

“Stop your giggling, Clarice. It is unbecoming.”

She folded in on herself, almost in a fetal position, seeking warmth in the cold room. Her laughter died away. She watched him with her own hungry eyes.

Hannibal, now free of his suit jacket and shoes, pulled two long black straps up onto the comforter — a wonderful find he’d made while exploring the owners’ bedchamber earlier.

“Are you sure about this, Clarice?”

“Yes.” She leaned forward and slipped a finger inside his mouth, knowing he’d do little but let her in once she tapped at his lips.

He closed his eyes for a second, tasting — she could feel the slickness of his tongue sliding over her skin — then opened them again. She pulled her finger back out, and he had to breathe deeply to stay rational. 

“I will try to not hurt you anymore than you _want_ to be hurt, Clarice. But if it becomes so rough as to be unpleasant, I encourage you to say so. For a safe word, perhaps — purple.”

“Purple?”

“Precisely. Or if you can’t talk, blink three times, and I’ll know what you mean.”

“Yes, Hannibal.”

He had guessed such a minx lived within her — she was raised Lutheran, after all — but it was thrilling to see it uncaged. Clarice was stepping forth into herself, but he wondered if it would be a sustainable change. 

He secured straps of faux fur around both of her wrists and ankles. She wriggled on the bedsheets in her cuffs, but he stood and ignored her for a few moments, working to light the various candles he had placed around the room. As with the flowers from the previous evening, there were entirely too many, which was perfect.

Finished with the lighter, Lecter sat on the bed. Clarice’s body glowed a soft yellow on the white comforter. Her breasts jiggled slightly as she positioned herself. She grew restless in his long gaze. He did not remove his own clothing so quickly. Instead, he brought his palms down on her inner thighs, softly. She spread herself, and he massaged the skin. It was supple and smooth.

_A scalpel would meet no resistance_ , he thought. _It would be easy to remove the legs._

Her moan was instant when he touched her, like running a bow over a taunt string. Her lower back arched upwards, and he moved his hands up her sides as he bent over her. Hannibal slipped the linen napkin from earlier out of his pocket and laid it over her eyes. She did not protest.

“I need a few things from the kitchen. I will be back.”

Hannibal quickly found what he needed and was back within a minute, but he silently lingered a while in the doorway, admiring how the candle flames played with the shadows on her naked skin in the dark. 

He set a bowl on the night stand, and her blindfolded head turned towards the sound. 

“I thought you’d left me.” Her tone was more coy than serious.

“Patience, Clarice.” He cupped her left breast in his hand for a moment and stroked the nipple with his thumb. It set her wriggling again.

She heard the sloshing of wine as the doctor poured himself a new glass of the opened Chianti. He sat next to her on the bed, tracing lines with a fingernail on her naked torso while enjoying his drink. Starling’s breath quickened whenever he approached the gap in her legs, but he continuously stopped short. He watched goosebumps rising and falling on her body with great interest. The doctor replaced his glass and reached for something else on the nightstand.

Clarice gasped when she felt the cold blade on her abdomen, a few inches down from her heart. Lecter studied its mirror edge. A breast was reflected on the silver in the moonlight. He moved it slowly down her stomach, drawing no blood.

Hannibal stopped and looked at her mouth. It was slightly open and rather wet. Her heart was beating rapidly.

“What did I tell you about fear, Agent Starling?” He traced a line with the knife between her breasts. A finger slipped beneath the fabric of her underwear. Her wet cunt drummed a small heartbeat against him. He lead the knife’s edge down her sternum. He could have her kidneys out in only a few minutes if he wanted to.

“Please don’t kill me like this, Dr. Lecter.” He did not detect any fear. She rubbed herself against his left index finger.

"'Like this,' Clarice?" He leaned over her torso and delicately touched the metallic edge of the knife to her right nipple, which flexed against the cold. He whispered in her ear, pushing only a knuckle inside her. "How would you like me to kill you, then?"

She leaned her blindfolded head against his as he nibbled along the curve of her ear. "You know what I meant," she breathed, pushing against his hand as well as she could with the restraints. He chuckled, softly.

"Not to worry, my Clarice. I intend to savor you."

Returning the knife to the nightstand and removing his exploring left hand, Lecter loosened his belt and hung it over the footboard before placing one knee on either side of Clarice’s. She went to touch him, but the wrist bounds stopped her short. He reached for a bowl on the nightstand.

“What are you doing?” She closed her knees on either side of his lower body, squeezing.

“As with dinner, we’ll use sensory deprivation to your benefit.” Lecter dipped his hands in the bowl of ice water and rubbed his palms together. As he centered himself over her, an icy few drips landed on Clarice’s bare stomach, and Hannibal watched with delight as her skin fidgeted against the unexpected cold. He rubbed the drops with his thumbs, sliding his hands down her lower belly until his palms were dry again. She groaned, a small back arch rising again.

Lecter removed a wet ice cube from the bowl and drew a circle around her right nipple with it, alternating between sucking and squeezing.

“Oh, god…” she trailed, gripping his lower legs more tightly with her knees, as far as the ankle bounds would allow. He repeated the movement with her other breast. Again, she moaned.

“When was the last time you prayed, Agent Starling?”

He laid on top of her, pressing his weight against her and offering the melting ice cube at her mouth while he twisted a nipple in his fingers. She sucked and moaned until he discarded the ice in the bowl again, biting at her neck and collarbone. She did not answer.

“You moan for God, but you cannot remember when you last sought Him,” he said, close to her right ear. “Do not moan for Him. Moan for me.” He took her right nipple in his mouth and pinched it between his teeth.

“H-…” Clarice breathed out, pressing her body against his. “Hannibal.”

“Good.”

He took another melting ice cube from the dish and painted broad strokes along her lower abdomen. The wetness glowed with a pale sheen in the candlelight. Lecter passed the ice back and forth between his fingers before replacing it in the bowl. Then, his trimmed nails were at the top of her underwear.

Hannibal removed her black panties, and he was not expecting the intense wave of desire he felt upon holding the damp polyester up to his face. He felt himself pushing the boundaries of his experience at every step, continuously turning new corners in his memory palace. Stairwells that he had previously assumed to be dead ends were revealing hidden chambers and nooks for exploring in the sensuous caverns of his consciousness. He would eat Clarice slowly, relish her.

Below him, in the watery shadows cast by the flickering flames, he looked at her exposed crotch. There was a bushel of dark hair ringing the lips of her labia. At every turn, she managed to look more delectable than the last.

Clarice had expected him to make her beg to be touched, so her surprised groans of pleasure were genuine when slipped a finger inside. Her muscles contracted around him as he began a rhythmic in-and-out pattern. Then, two fingers. 

…Three.

“Oh, g - Hanni, Hannibal… f—…fuck.” She was warm, slick and tight around him. He thought, fleetingly, of Miggs' remark the first time he had met Starling. " _I can smell your cunt_." He had killed the man for such flagrant rudeness. But now, willingly, Hannibal could smell it, too. And he would do more than sniff the air.

Lecter applied pressure to the inside of her thighs until she laid them open as far as she could stretch. His mouth was on her then, tongue flicking. She nearly screamed, and it was increasingly difficult for Hannibal to restrain his growing erection. Penetration during sex had never seemed necessary to him until those moments. He satisfied her, with his hands and with his mouth, as she pushed herself against him with a push and pull not unlike the ocean itself. Her taste was earthy and fragrant, slightly coppery and a tinge acidic. 

When Clarice’s thrusts slowed and her moans leveled, Hannibal removed himself from her and wiped his hands on a bedside towel. He needed to center himself, to focus. It would be easy to lose himself in the moment, only to find his hands tracing the blade back down her bare belly, this time with more force. The weapon glinted at him from the nightstand; it had been an almost absent-minded selection as he exited the kitchen with the other goods.

No, he told himself. His candle was burning too brightly tonight at both ends for that tonight. Still, he wanted to see how her body reacted to more pain. His fingers found the belt hanging over the footboard.

Lecter unshackled her ankles. 

“Are you done?” She was dissatisfied.

“No. I want you to turn over.” He unshackled her wrists, and she laid on her stomach without a word. 

He restrained her arms again and trailed the belt strap down her torso, enjoying the shivers it induced.

“Do you remember the safe word, Clarice?” 

“Yes.”

Lecter wrapped the buckle end around his hand to make a loop. He wished he had a more specialized tool for the job, but this would do for now. 

The first slap landed on her right cheek, and it was quite restrained. A small line of redness appeared where the belt had been as Clarice moaned into the pillows, still wearing her blindfold. He whipped her again, harder this time, and her back arched.

“Do you like the feeling of pain, Clarice?”

He was on top of her then, whispering in her ear as his clothed erection pushed into her naked behind. Sliding a hand in between her body and the comforter, he pinched her right nipple again. Starling rocked her hips against the mattress.

“Answer me, Clarice.” He pinched harder.

“Yes,” she choked out, turning her head sideways on the pillow for air. “Don’t stop.” 

Hannibal continued to smack her with the belt, thoroughly savoring every flinch, gasp and beg she gave him for it. It would have been so easy to keep going, to take her past the edge — but no. No. Not this evening. Perhaps never on any evening. There was too much opportunity to be had.

Lecter stopped a few minutes later, Starling’s buttocks covered in stinging red marks and his penis throbbing for attention. He let the belt fall on the bedspread and began undoing the remaining buttons of his shirt.

Nakedness was not a normal state for the cannibal. He rarely existed in the nude for any remarkable length of time, always preferring the style and attitude he could convey with clothing. For the first time in many years, he felt defenseless, vulnerable even. Part of him wanted Clarice to see him as he entered her, but another side was comfortable keeping her blindfold in place.

He pushed the linen off of her eyes, tossing it onto the floor. Clarice blinked twice, her pupils expanding as they adjusted to the dim candlelight. She craned her neck around to see him, but the restraints made it difficult. Starling saw a glimpse of pale white skin and flat, peach-colored nipples.

Clarice felt her lower body being drug towards the edge of the bed, and then the tip of his penis was rubbing against her clit. 

Lecter bent over, running his hands again up her sore cheeks, her smooth torso and the bulbous sides of her breasts as they pressed against the bedspread. As he kissed along the back of her neck, she realized he had not kissed her lips once.

“Do you still want me to fuck you, Clarice?”

“Yes.”

Hannibal shoved into her, the first time he had done so in a very long time. Clarice let out a pleasurable scream, digging her unshackled knees against the mattress to push him deeper. Lecter began thrusting, letting wave after wave of sensation roll over him. Starling’s hands gripped onto her restraints like a jockey pulling on the reigns, and her strength pulled the cords tight as she braced against them, using the tension to push back and forth onto him with fervor. She looked strong, glorious — like a chariot rider in the coliseum. 

Lecter took up the belt again, his smacks moving upwards onto her back and growing stronger as they fucked. There were red lines tracing her body, which he alternated between aggravating and massaging for her pleasure. He felt her stiffen against him, squeezing her the top of her thighs together as she rocked back and forth in climax. Her mouth fell open and a long moan came out. Her knees were shaking.

“Purple — purple,” she choked out, and he dropped the belt onto the floor, pausing his thrusts to regain a bit of breath. They both panted for a moment, and Hannibal undid her remaining binds.

Now free, Clarice turned from her stomach to her side and then her back, still breathing heavily. Her chest rose quickly as her heart raced, and Lecter allowed himself to repose next to her, still quite hard.

She flipped over onto her other side to face him and wrapped her fingers around his cock, making a fist. To avoid the awkwardness of staring into his face as she did so, Clarice laid her left cheek on his abdomen as she worked him up and down. His climax came a few moments later, and she felt him dig his right fingertips into her bare shoulder.

Quiet. Breathing.

“Thank you, Clarice.”

Silence.

* * *

Starling rolled her face off of his stomach and laid flat, feeling a soreness begin to set into her back, buttocks and thighs from the blows she had welcomed. From the corner of her vision, she saw Hannibal wipe himself down with the hand towel from the nightstand.

Clarice excused herself to pee. It had been a long time since her last fuck, but she remembered her undergraduate roommate preaching to her about the importance of pissing after sex, especially for anything done without a condom. The white bathroom lights were unbearably fluorescent after enjoying the comfort of candlelight. She slipped into a satin bathrobe hanging on the back of the door before rejoining Lecter. Her nakedness had felt sinful in the bright light.

_He appears to be in a minor state of shock_ , Sterling thought.

“Are you all right?” she asked, sliding back onto the bed but sitting near the edge.

“Quite, thank you.” 

Hannibal removed himself to the bathroom next, returning in the navy blue robe he had worn that morning on the veranda. As their sex faded, the amount of lit candles felt more and more ridiculous. Clarice thought it rather reminded her of a chapel. She sat up from the pillows, smoothing the robe.

“I’d rather sleep separately, if that’s all right, doctor.”

“Perfectly.” He had to clear his throat. “I would prefer it, too.”

Clarice stood and wondered if she should kiss him goodnight. She opted for no.

“Can I help you clean any of this up?” She gestured to the room, picking up her discarded dress, underwear and shoes.

“I will attend to it. Go and rest, Clarice.”

“Well… all right.” She paused in the doorway, adjusting the shoes in her grasp. “I — well — thank you. For this evening.”

Hannibal cupped a hand around a group of small candles and blew them out.

“The pleasure was mine, Clarice.”

“And mine.”

They smiled, possibly for the first time at each other, and she excused herself to her room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I couldn't decide if this was Too Much or not. I revised it until I had to stop myself and just turn it loose. I rated this story Explicit after all, right?


	9. Part One, The Art of Fucking: 9

**PART ONE: THE ART OF FUCKING**   
**Chapter 9**

Clarice woke to soft morning light on her face and the muffled sound of a harpsichord in the distance. She rolled onto her side to check the nightstand’s digital clock, and pangs of soreness rippled across her back and thighs. She groaned then sighed, stretching her legs to their fullest extent under the comforter. The clock read 9:15, and there was a small dish with two white pills alongside a glass of water next to it. A piece of folded paper stuck out from under the dish.

_“I expect you will need these. - H”_

Clarice drained the glass and forced herself out of bed, leaving the pills untouched. Her body was sore but her head was clear; she’d accept that for today.

Starling examined herself in the bathroom mirror. Her knees were wobbly, and she could feel every inch of tender skin stretching painfully over her muscles. She turned to see two angry, swollen welts staring back at her; one on the middle of her left thigh and another on her right shoulder. 

Sounds floated up from her memories and echoed between her ears. First was the slap of a leather belt meeting flesh. Then, a moan. _My moan_ , she thought. 

In the shower that followed, hot water washed relief over her. It was a long time before she stepped out to towel off.

* * *

Clarice followed the drifts of harpsichord music to find Hannibal playing in the parlor. His dark head was bent over the keys, eyes closed. 

“Good morning, Clarice,” he said without turning or pausing his hands.

“Morning, Doctor.” She took a soft spot on the couch.

“I’ve left your breakfast to keep warm in the oven, should you desire it.”

“That’s kind of you, thank you.” 

The silence that followed was comfortable. Hannibal continued playing and somewhere outside birds warbled in the frosty trees. 

His hands came to a rest a few minutes later. 

“I’m afraid our time here has nearly run its course.”

“Where will we go?”

“We?” His eyes crackled.

“There’s not really anywhere else I can go, I suppose.”

“And so you’d like to stay with me, Agent Starling?”

“I’m not an agent anymore, Doctor, you know that.”

“I like how it sounds with your name.”

She tucked her feet next to her on the couch cushions. 

“Well, I don’t have anywhere else to go. I can’t go back to the FBI, that’s for sure.”

“Especially if they begin looking into our mutual friend Paul Krendler.” A reptilian smile tugged at his lips.

Clarice’s stomach churned at the thought of him. “There’s Krendler, and then of course the shit show at Muskrat Farm. My actions were way out of line. If I go back now, I’m facing a jail cell.”

“You followed your instincts, Clarice. What are your instincts telling you now? Don’t think too long.”

She met his gaze evenly. “My instincts are telling me it’s a bad idea to head home and an even worse one to leave you wandering the world unsupervised.”

Lecter tutted. “So it’s a lifetime of martyrdom, then, Starling? Tell me, when Persephone ate the pomegranate seeds, do you think she knew what would happen?”

Clarice bit her lip. “I don’t know, Hannibal. Maybe. But I don’t have anywhere to go. I assume you figured as much when you took me with you. If you can’t be in custody, then I might as well stay by your side.”

“He who sups with the devil should have a long spoon, Clarice.” He set his fingers back on the harpsichord. “Although you’ve already done more than sup, haven’t you?” He began playing again before she could answer, not that she had intended to. 

As she left the room, Clarice saw he was smiling.

* * *

Starling enjoyed the late breakfast of pancakes and sausage that was waiting for her in the oven. She ate alone in the kitchen, with music still echoing in from the parlor. She washed the dishes in warm soapy water with slow strokes. The action made her feel grounded, like she was holding on to something real. She could wash that dish and consider it done; a task accomplished, finished. 

Lecter found her standing in front of the sink, water running, her hand on a sponge while she stared out the far window as if in a trance.

“Clarice, are you there?”

She jumped, clinking the plate against the sink and turning off the tap.

“Yes, yes, sorry. I — I’m still not quite myself, I guess.”

“What were you dreaming about? Don’t lie to me.”

She set the plate on the drying rack and wiped her hands with a folded towel. “I was thinking — wondering — about…us, about whatever this is. I tried to imagine what my life will be like in six months, a year.”

“And what did you see? Was it happy?”

His tone was impossible to read. She couldn’t tell if he’d be disappointed or elated if she responded with an affirmative.

“It wasn’t anything. It just was, Doctor.”

Hannibal picked up the dish towel and the wet butter knife she’d used to spread butter on her pancakes. He looked at her, and Clarice plucked her fork from the drying mat, also grabbing a towel. They held each other’s eyes, briefly.

With a wry smile, he wiped the knife clean and returned it to the silverware drawer, seemingly pleased with himself for reasons she didn’t know. 

“I have an idea of our next steps, if you’ll allow me to lead. All I ask is that you collect any belongings you have in the next hour and meet me back here once you’re done. I could use your help with something.”

Starling stared at the four silver, sharp prongs of the fork. Her mind was still blissfully clear. He was unarmed. _I could get the fork into his neck_. Then what? _He would overpower me_. He was unarmed now but that would change. _He could remove the fork from his neck and turn it against me_. She wouldn’t win.

“If you’re imagining how it would feel to sink that fork into me, Clarice, I must confess I would rather not live out that fantasy. I don’t think it’ll end well for you, and I’d like to keep you around.”

He put his hand over hers and took the fork from her fingers. The metal slid against her hand with no real resistance.

“Prepare to travel and then meet me back here in an hour. Wear comfortable shoes. Do not remove any bags from the home. Place your belongings directly in the backseat of your Mustang — we will need the trunk for other things. Do note that all of the clothing in the armoire is yours. I picked it out, and I’d like for you to keep it.”

She relaxed her shoulders. “I’ll report back in an hour.”

_I’m going to need one hell of a spoon._

* * *

Clarice stood next to Lecter in the kitchen an hour and five minutes later, both of them now wearing fresh painter’s clothes that covered their arms, legs and torso. Two buckets on the counter each held bleach, glass cleaner, latex gloves and sponges. 

The task was straight forward. They divided the house and worked top to bottom. Surfaces were wiped, beds were stripped, towels were gathered and laundry was started. Lecter uncovered artwork and animal trophies he had previously hidden, grimacing again at the homeowner's poor choices. Clarice was beginning to think she’d never be free of the smell of lemons, and her legs were furious with her for the work.

The only sound in the rented house was the Glenn Miller big band music that came from the dining room record player. When the album finished, Lecter called to Clarice to pick out something else. She slipped on a new pair of latex gloves before sliding David Bowie’s _Heroes_ CD into a stereo next to the record player. She expected to hear some protest. She did not.

As “The Secret Life of Arabia” finished up on the speakers, Clarice and Hannibal met again in the kitchen. 

“All that’s left is for the laundry to finish up, right?” Starling began to peel off her gloves then glanced at the freshly polished granite countertops and thought better of it. Hannibal placed a couple of containers from the fridge into the trash bag between his knees.

“Correct. Everything else will be wrapped up as we go to leave.”

“Where are we headed? And do we have cash?”

“Somewhere sunny. Palm trees. Beaches — actual beaches, not like that Hoof and Mouth Disease tripe, if you’ll remember. And, most importantly, somewhere that I still have a safe house.”

Clarice couldn’t help a small smile at the Plum Island reference. “So…Florida?”

“Miami, to be exact. I’ve got a condo on South Beach in Art Deco style, right on the water, a beautiful view.” A gleam came into his eye. “We’ll need to get you a swimsuit, Agent Starling.”

“No thanks, I’m not really the beach type. But they’re good for runs, I’m sure I’ll enjoy that in the mornings — or, I would, if we weren’t….well, on the run.”

“You’ll be back to your outdoor freedom soon enough, Clarice, don’t you worry about that.”

The dryer dinged from a room in the back of the house. Starling offered to fold and change the loads over while Lecter finished clearing out the kitchen cupboards.

Two hours later, they were loading trash bags into the back of Clarice’s Mustang. They’d just finished changing the tags on the vehicle, swapping the plate out for the one on Lecter’s truck. The Mustang’s original plate was left in the trunk, the plan being that they would dump it somewhere on the way to Miami. A slip of paper in the back window of the truck read “TAG APPLIED FOR” in Lecter’s copperplate. 

It was nearly four o’clock, and she estimated they had about an hour of winter sunlight before nightfall. They stripped themselves of the full-body painter’s gear and their final pairs of latex gloves, crumpling the goods into the top trash bag and tying it shut. 

“We’ll toss these in a public dumpster once we’re out of Baltimore,” said Lecter, fixing his shirt sleeve cuffs. He removed a black baseball cap and a dark pair of sunglasses from his bag in the backseat. 

“Are you ready, Clarice?”

“As ready as I’ll ever be, Doctor.”

“That’s the spirit.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This concludes part one! Thank you all for sticking with me. I usually like to upload multiple chapters at a time, but I wanted to go ahead and get this one up so that the fic didn't look abandoned (plus I wanted to round out part one).
> 
> *Puts "Miami" by Will Smith on repeat*
> 
> Thank you for your support so far!


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